A Warmth I'll Not Forget
by blue.rose.spobette
Summary: DH Spoilers. Post DH. A more detailed summary inside. Funerals...Festivities...Romance... Heart to hearts...Relief...Regret...Accepting what comes next. RR.


**A Warmth I'll Not Forget**

* * *

_**Complete Summary:**__ Harry is still getting over the horrors he has seen and experienced in his lifetime. Adjusting to a normal lifestyle is never easy after living in fear for so long. Together with the Weasley family, he mourns his recent losses and tries his best to breathe the newly-freshened air. He experiences drama with George, coffee with Percy, overhears a surprising conversation with Ron and Hermione, and at last confronts Ginny…_

* * *

_**We were drawn from the weeds  
We were brave like soldiers  
Falling down under the pale moonlight  
You were holding to me  
Like a someone broken  
And I couldn't tell you but I'm telling you now  
Just let me hold you while you're falling apart  
Just let me hold you so we both fall down**_

"_**Ever The Same" – Rob Thomas **_

* * *

The fog was billowing all around him in the form of intricate wisps, obscuring his vision and merely reflecting the light from the tip of his wand. Not even the light from the stars and moon in the sky was providing much assistance. The grounds of Hogwarts were silent—eerily silent. The way it had been in the graveyard so many years ago upon his and Cedric's immediate arrival. He took this as an unmistakable sign of foreboding as he cautiously made his way toward the Forbidden Forest, gripping his wand tightly, knowing somewhere deep down that this would be his inevitable demise.

Cackling. Evil, maniacal laughter floated above the treetops and was carried to him on the wind. He broke into a heavy run…

Harry Potter shot up in bed at once, his breath hitched in his chest and his forehead and back drenched in sweat. A nightmare…He had expected it. Though Voldemort had been vanquished and was no longer penetrating his mind, his very own consciousness was still being haunted by the events. Until now he had never known what it would be like to experience a typical nightmare…One that did not result in his scar burning. This was the third nightmare in a row like this, however, and it was unpleasant all the same.

Harry looked towards the window—Dawn was not yet approaching, but was not far off. Peering to the other side, he noted that Ron was not in his bed. He had not, after all, been sleeping well as of late. Harry did not blame him. He wasn't sure his rest had been much better.

With a guttural sigh of resignation, he flopped onto his back once more, his head sinking into the pillow. As he watched the shadows on the ceiling, his mind began to race with the intensity of the current events.

He was a hero, honestly. It had only been three days since the fall of the Dark Lord—His name had been splashed on the front pages of every Wizarding newspaper in existence—And yet, after all of this, he still felt numb. It had not yet sunken in, for certain. His body and mind were exhausted from seventeen years of living in fear, planning how to stop Voldemort killing him the next time. Now that the worry could finally be settled, it seemed to have taken all other adjunct emotions with it. He had not been capable of feeling relief or satisfaction; in the same vein, he had not been able to harbor remorse or regret. He had witnessed several of his closest friends die in only the past year—That combined with his entire lifetime. It seemed as though his brain had learned to anesthetize this pain by now not with apathy, but with exhaustion. Exhaustion that could not be cured, for sleep had not been generous. All of these factors had been butting heads so viciously for the past three days that he was not sure he felt _anything_ other than this fatigue.

That was not to say that he did not think about these deaths at every waking moment—There had been no time to revel in Voldemort's departure, for how could one possibly be proud of himself when so many had lost their lives in attempts to help him? Each tragedy had been equally devastating—Hedwig killed, Moody's brave end, Dobby's dedication being his downfall, Lupin, Tonks, Fred…Even Wormtail's fate had been itching at Harry's brain with an unrelenting valor. He had seen the true Peter Pettigrew for a moment, but only a moment—He had understood for that brief second why his father had taken such pity upon him.

And at the end of this mental trajectory, his blood went cold and his heart dropped into the pit of his stomach as he remembered his promise to Remus Lupin to be Teddy's godfather. The notion of this responsibility weighed very heavily on him right now. He would do all he could to give this baby a proper home with a loving family…But _now_ seemed so…_immediate_. He only wanted a moment to breathe…It was the first moment in so long that he had not been wondering how long he might live. Now that he would have the lifespan of an average wizard, he had to swallow the overwhelming information—And it was one bite at a time, most certainly.

Molly had been watching over Teddy the past couple days. Harry reckoned it took her mind off her son's absence, however briefly. Unless she was feeding, bathing, coddling, or changing him, her nose was buried in a handkerchief and she was absolutely inconsolable and even unattainable, for she would lock herself away. It was the first time since Harry had met her that he had seen her steer so clear from the kitchen. She had even lost weight in her habitual isolation periods. Ginny and Hermione had taken it upon themselves to fix supper most times—Their creations were no match for Mrs. Weasley's, but nobody complained; not even George, who, under any other circumstances, would likely tease them to lighten the mood.

Bill had also spent a considerable amount of time with Teddy when Molly could not. Harry figured that this would be good practice for him, for he and Fleur were in talks about having a child, themselves.

Mr. Weasley and Percy had been most helpful, keeping The Burrow clean and tending to the depressed. Percy seemed to have taken the occurrence particularly hard, but obviously felt obligated to compensate for the years he had missed by comforting everybody else. Harry sometimes caught him quietly sobbing in the garden when he thought nobody was around.

George, on the other hand, had gone mental. Not that anybody could argue with his reaction. There were constant explosions and crashes from his bedroom—more than had ever been—and he was wildly Apparating about the house in search of ingredients for his latest concoction. Harry had the dark, heart-wrenching feeling that whatever he was brewing was a desperate attempt to contact or bring back his brother. During meals he would mumble to himself about Enchanted Mirrors and Resurrection Runes. Though George had always been the smartest of the twins, his common sense seemed to have taken a holiday, for he was no longer in his right mind—immediately after Fred's death he had wandered into the forest. It had taken an entire hour to track him down. Once they had, (Ginny had been the one to finally locate him,) he was sobbing uncontrollably. It had taken them all by surprise.

And Ginny. She had been so strong. Harry watched her every opportunity he got. Her jaw seemed to be permanently clenched as she kept a rigid chin-up. She avoided eye contact with everybody but him; he supposed this was because she did not feel comfortable letting anybody else know that she was hurting. She had busied herself with countless chores and tasks around the house and for the funeral arrangements, distracting herself so much so that nobody would be able to catch her. She was always around when somebody needed her, but was gone once more soon-after. Harry feared that she was wandering away to have a cry, herself, in which case he longed to hold her in reassurance. Each time his eyes met hers she seemed to be reeling with internal struggles: depression over the loss in the family, but relief regarding the passing danger. She seemed to be begging for enlightenment each time he looked at her.

That seemed to be the case for everybody; so many good things had been happening…Though it didn't feel appropriate to celebrate quite yet. It had only been three days, after all…The mourning period had not yet concluded.

With an unpleasant grunt Harry raised himself from his cot. No use in trying to sleep again now, he figured, wandering quietly down the stairs and into the kitchen. To his surprise, there sat Percy, jittery as ever, a cup of coffee in hand. He would raise it to his lips, take a tiny sip, and set it back on the table for only a second or two before picking it up again. He was staring off into space, tapping his fingertips on the tabletop and bouncing his right knee. It honestly looked as though he may explode at any moment. Or it may have been the caffeine.

Harry cleared his throat. "Perce?"

The man jumped nearly three feet in the air at this disruption, having a sharp intake of breath. "Oh, Harry…It's you," he mumbled, looking slightly uncomfortable. Harry felt the atmosphere as mutual, realizing that this may have been the first time that he and Percy were _ever_ in a room together by themselves. Truth be told, Percy had not exactly been Harry's biggest supporter in the past. After You-Know-Who's return, it had been Percy who warned Ron that Harry would "be a threat to his Prefect duties."

It had angered Harry to a boiling point, he recalled. Harry had spent such immense amounts of time at The Burrow, beginning to regard the family as his own, that Percy's accusations had stung deeply. However, seeing his honest effort to make things right again and witnessing his heart-wrenching reaction to Fred's death, Harry's grudge had loosened considerably.

"Can't sleep either, then?" Percy offered whilst gesturing to the chair across from him, very obviously avoiding eye contact.

"Hasn't been easy for any of us, I think," Harry responded, gratefully taking the proffered chair. There was a moment of awkward silence during which Percy continued his steady coffee routine. Harry cleared his throat once more and found the hem of his pajama shirt particularly interesting for the time being.

This sort of confrontation had never been easy for him. He wanted nothing more than to apologize for everything that had happened, for all the hurt he had caused the Weasley family in their efforts to support him so liberally. He wanted to clear the air and be sure that Percy no longer viewed him as the dangerous, deranged teenager he had thought him to be for so long.

Most of all, he wanted to make sure that Percy would be okay. Not now, obviously, but eventually. He had taken everything so hard—likely because he had not been around enough lately to appreciate his brother. Three years had gone by: three years that could have stemmed maturation in his relationship with his brothers; three years that he could never again get back.

"I miss him, Harry," Percy admitted through a lump in his throat, as though reading Harry's mind. The way he said it almost made Harry want to laugh; he had used such a characteristically pompous tone, as though it made this all easier to say…As though it would mask all other emotions.

The hero reached across the table to awkwardly pat Percy's hand in comfort. He didn't feel that there was much else he could do, for the third-born Weasley boy had begun to breathe very heavily in desperate attempt to restrain his tears.

"I am not proud of it," Percy continued, giving Harry the distinct feeling that they were about to have out their differences. Percy was obviously struggling very strongly to make himself say these things. His jaw was clenched and he sat up straight in a very business-like fashion, though Harry took notice of his trembling. "It seemed…Well…So down-right ridiculous at the time. You-Know-Who having _returned_. The word of a fourteen-year old boy. Harry…You must understand…" he pleaded, trailing off as all remaining valor slowly ebbed away.

It wasn't quite the apology Harry would have hoped for. But this was noticeably difficult for Percy to be saying, as he shivered more violently than ever. His eyes had welled up with tears that he kept wiping away embarrassedly, as though hoping Harry had not seen. A loud sniffle betrayed such efforts.

A week ago, Harry would have been tempted to ream him out. He would have given him a word or two about being an insensitive prat, betraying his own family for the already-proven unreliability of the Ministry. He'd have maybe been obliged to punch him in the nose and explain that _he_ felt that pain when Percy declared him as a troubled young man who hadn't the faintest clue what severity was held in the things he said. That he had always looked at Percy as a brother, just like his fellow Weasleys, and that it had hurt him beyond words for him to turn his back.

But the given week had held so many reasons to forgive and forget. Nothing seemed important enough to begrudge any longer. Time was so short with so many loved ones…And Harry, for one, was done being angry for things that did not matter anymore.

He wanted to say something profound. Something of immense comfort that could erase all the hard feelings that had developed. Wise and sturdy—Something that one would often hear from Dumbledore's own mouth.

But nothing seemed sufficient in quenching any of these misgivings. Not much could be said for it now.

"I do understand," was all he could manage to say, in the end.

* * *

The funeral service at The Burrow the next day was more than unpleasant, in all honesty. Not only was it immeasurably difficult to pay such finite good-byes to Fred, but even worse was the fact that most guests could not seem to resist the urge to offer Harry their sincerest congratulations on his victory. This was most embarrassing, as it seemed to be neither the proper time nor place. In fact, Harry thought he caught a bitter eye from George once or twice from it. He could not blame him—When they should have been offering the Weasleys their condolences, most were instead declaring to Harry their gratitude.

It was beginning to feel most uncomfortable; Harry thought it best to make himself scarce, so as to avoid the mishap all together, making a beeline for the edge of the forest. Whether he was grateful or spiteful to see Ron and Hermione occupying this particular vicinity he did not know, but he approached them nevertheless.

"All right, Mate?" he asked quietly of Ron, who had discovered a shady haven beneath a willow. As was typical of Ron's nature, he had already loosened his tie and was spread-eagled in the grass. Hermione sat rather more elegantly, as usual, her dainty legs crossed quite femininely.

Ron hardly raised his head to Harry before flopping it back and responding with, "Bloody old wench."

Harry was taken aback. "I—I didn't mean—What?"

"No, no, not you," Hermione offered kindly, a ghost of a smile teasing her lips. "Aunt Muriel."

"_Bloody old wench_," Ron repeated.

"What did she do?" Harry inquired, taking a seat on Ron's other side. The shade was certainly cool and comforting compared to the muggy sunlight.

This question seemed to render Hermione into a state of discomfort. She opened her mouth and closed it repeatedly like a fish out of water, as if searching for the right words to tell the tale. At last, she looked disdainfully to Ron, who sighed and propped his upper half onto his elbows.

"She asked me if I was dead," Ron spat spitefully, brushing away stray ginger hairs from his face. "Ruddy old bat."

"I don't understand," Harry confessed in confusion, looking to Hermione for clarification. She merely shrugged uncertainly.

"Marched right up to him and asked, 'Aren't you the one who died?' It was…rather awkward," she finished pathetically, glancing carefully down at Ron for a reaction.

"Can't even tell us apart. Insensitive spinster."

Harry wasn't sure he had ever heard such a variety of insults for anybody but Malfoy. Ron had obviously been brewing over this for several minutes.

"I'm sure she…I doubt she meant…" But Harry knew, in all honesty, that this could not be justified.

"I tried, too," Hermione added, as if reading his mind.

"Only reason I didn't retaliate is 'cause Mum says I play a hefty role in her will," Ron muttered.

There was a pause in which Harry drank in Ron's statement. And, in spite of himself and the current circumstance, he released a chuckle. Hermione seemed to have felt the same, for muffled giggles were stifled behind her hand.

"It's the bloody truth!" Ron insisted, his face reddening slightly, as though mildly insulted that they found this amusing. It only fueled the laughter.

The red in Ron's face drained considerably as he smiled, albeit with hesitation. After only a moment he was enjoying his own unintentional joke as well.

It was the first time that anything had felt normal in quite a while.

A throat clearing tore the three friends from their mirth. There stood the familiar form of a once-common enemy. The scars on his face were obvious now when caught by the beams of sunlight, which also reflected across his whitened-blond hair.

"Weasley," he offered platonically, though with some restraint.

"Malfoy," Ron returned.

They let this settle for a second.

"Must be bloody hard," Draco confessed stiffly of the situation. Then, almost as quickly as he had said it, his face turned red in anger as though Ron had forced him to. Before Ron could even react, however, Draco had already started full-stride back towards the back yard.

The silence was carried further on the wind that blew past now, tousling Hermione's hair in its wake. Ron seemed to be either struggling to uncover a joke from this statement or pinpoint a reason to be angry about it. Neither seemed to be successful.

"Thanks," he mumbled quietly after some thought, though Draco was already long gone.

* * *

It was nearly a half hour later before the trio headed back to the crowd. None had been particularly fond of the idea, but knew that the return was inevitable. It was lucky that, when they arrived back, the guests had dispersed and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were magicking chairs back into neat stacks and levitating tables into the storage shed. It was dusk, by this time, placing a chill on the wind and providing a soft melody of chirping crickets.

"Need any help, Mum?" asked Ron feebly, both hands shoved into his pockets. Molly turned to him, swollen eyes, and offered a sad smile.

"No, Dear. I think we're quite all right. You go on inside."

Ron made to do as told, but hesitated for a moment before turning back to his mother and wrapping her in a meaningful hug. Her wand hand went somewhat limp, causing a pile of chairs to crash back to the ground. Harry and Hermione glanced briefly at each other before deciding that this was a personal scene unfolding, and both began traipsing toward the back door.

"Harry…May I see you a moment?" Mr. Weasley requested just as Hermione had reached the handle. She smiled weakly at him before nodding and disappearing inside. Harry took a deep breath. This was it. Arthur was going to politely ask Harry to vacate the premises and never return. He would plainly state that Harry was a good lad, and he meant no offense, but that he had caused quite enough ruckus in the family, thank you very much, and that it would probably be best for everybody if he traveled far, far away.

"Mr. Weasley…" he began uncertainly, fearful of the lecture he was about to receive.

"We're holding an honors ceremony here tomorrow night, Harry," said Mr. Weasley in a brisker tone than had been heard from his mouth in weeks. "Most everybody from the Wizarding World will be in our back yard tomorrow evening to offer their congratulations for your marvelous feat."

Harry blanched. This had been something less than the reaction he had expected. He noticed from his peripherals that Ron and his mother had parted, both furiously wiping away tearful remnants as they approached.

"I—I don't understand—"

"A banquet, Harry. In your honor," Mrs. Weasley chimed proudly, placing a warm hand on his shoulder.

"But—I couldn't," Harry insisted, feeling so overwhelmed that he stumbled upon his words. "We're all still in mourning—It's not at all appropriate—I don't _want_ to face anybody—I couldn't possibly take this time away from Fred…"

"Nonsense," said Mr. Weasley with paternal brazenness. "Harry, we've spent too long already dwelling over our losses." Though his eyes shined with the threat of new tears as he said this, Harry took note of his persistence. "We have much to be grateful for in these times and we have not yet celebrated our blessings appropriately."

"We are all grieving, Dear," Mrs. Weasley added, embracing Harry in a tight hug. Even the corners of Ron's lips were forming upwards slightly in appreciation. "We will perhaps be grieving for the rest of our lives. But that's not to say that we should neglect what wonderful things we've been granted by your bravery." She pulled away, both hands on his forearms, a tearful smile glinting upon her face. "You deserve to be thanked."

"I don't want to," Harry declared, perhaps too harshly, as he backed away from her. "I—I couldn't—I wouldn't even be able—" He started to stutter as he felt his own sob lodge in his throat, his eyes beginning to sting. "I'm not this fantastic hero you've all pegged me to be. It was sheer dumb luck, the way Malfoy disarmed Dumbledore last Spring, and that I may come to be the rightful owner of the Elder Wand. I didn't _do_ anything special…I didn't even really know _what_ I was doing…"

"That's why it's so brilliant, Mate…Don't be daft," Ron started, shaking his head in exasperation. His eyes also harbored a fiery determination that Harry had never seen before. The sun had set completely now, for Harry could only make out Ron's freckles when he stepped into the moonlight. "You're right: you didn't have a plan. It's not as though you've been carefully monitoring this whole thing for the last seven years, and we all know that. But you had the wits to win in the end. That's why everybody admires you: not because of careful planning and meticulous action, but because you took action without knowing how it'd turn out. It was courageous, Mate. Your courage is what people want to celebrate."

Harry was rendered speechless for a moment; despite being Ron's best friend for seven years, this was perhaps the very first time that he had fleshed out their companionship into words. He had been Harry's unrelenting supporter for years, standing by his side regardless of the circumstance or outcome, yes…But he had never quite explained where this unconditional faith continued to stem from. It was far more heart-warming to hear this all from Ron than from the bloody _Prophet_.

"I'm not…Ready," Harry finished pathetically, collapsing tiredly into one of the only remaining lawn chairs. His mind was reeling, to say the least.

"You don't have to be ready," Mr. Weasley agreed sympathetically. "Your modesty is what makes you even more of a hero."

These final words echoed in Harry's mind all night as he tried to sleep. He still didn't quite understand why they thought so highly of him, or why they had been so determined to go through with the festivities. If anybody deserved thanks, he thought, it was the Weasleys, for they were so decidedly grateful for Harry's actions, despite what it had cost them in the process. Harry felt this merited far more congratulations.

However, as he lay awake that night, he found solace in knowing that, due to the silence throughout The Burrow, all others were at last sleeping peacefully.

* * *

The next morning proved to be quite as busy as the last, only now the hustle and bustle was accompanied in part by chipper spirits and a cloudless sky. Even Ginny had smiled at one of Ron's more pathetic attempts at joking, which had put a spring in Harry's step. It was as though the funeral the previous day had provided a sense of closure for most of the family—Only George seemed to be still considerably distraught, partaking somewhat silently in the preparations.

The ceremony was just as awkward as Harry had expected. Rubeus Hagrid and Minerva McGonagall had both presented outstanding speeches of Harry's character and integrity. Hagrid had blown his nose several times in the middle to recompose himself before continuing. He took a substantial amount of time to do this while telling his tale of carrying Harry's limp body back to Hogwarts, especially. "An' 'e was alive the _entire time_. Bless 'is heart, fakin' 'is own death to trick the Dark Lord into takin' 'im back to the grounds."

What Hagrid didn't know (what Hermione and Ron barely even knew) is that Harry had not faked his death at all…Not really, anyway. Only for a few moments. He had certainly died by Voldemort's hand—He had even come to a state of limbo in which he spoke with Albus Dumbledore—But he wasn't sure he was ready to offer his rendition of this just yet. In actuality, not even _he_ really understood what had happened. And just before it, he had seen his parents, Remus, and Sirius pseudo-resurrected…He wasn't even sure he could bear to describe this scene to those who respected him most, for fear of sounding certifiably insane.

McGonagall's speech was equally embarrassing; Harry feared the scarlet rising in his cheeks may never fade. She was far more focused, however, than Hagrid, keeping her dignity throughout her entire dialogue even while boasting Harry's accomplishments. One thing about her words though that Harry particularly disliked was the fact that she seemed to always come back to prior conversations with Dumbledore and how his faith in Harry had never faltered. This may have all been true, but Harry also knew now of Dumbledore's doubts—He'd had intricate plans for Harry, perhaps twisting Harry's fate into a cause for the greater good.

In the end, this only made Harry admire him more—Despite the fact that Dumbledore had kept these things secret for so long, Harry knew that he had every reason for orchestrating it the way he had. If he had told Harry that he was meant to die that night, it would have defeated the purpose of his sacrifice. Maybe he didn't have complete confidence in his judgment, but his belief in Harry's abilities did always, indeed, remain strong and true. Perhaps he had known all along that Harry would survive in the end…Or perhaps it had been the one case when even Hogwarts' greatest Headmaster had doubts.

It was strange, really, how everyone continued to beam at him. He recognized many people (Bones, Brown, Diggory) but also found himself later shaking hands with total strangers. Some even hugged him, knocking his glasses askew and making for an uncomfortable predicament.

Even the Malfoys had consented to attend, albeit with bitterness. Harry had the distinct feeling that their presence was due in part to Narcissa's gratitude to Harry for Draco's life combined with a desire to come back into the good graces of the Wizarding World.

Tonks's mother was also there, along with an incredible amount of Hogwarts professors.

Even Viktor Krum had accepted the invitation, causing Ron to sulk for quite some time near the refreshment table. However, when Harry glanced back toward him a half an hour later, he had wandered off.

He had shared a pleasant conversation with Neville Longbottom, as well, who seemed an entirely different person from the bumbling boy he had met in his first year at Hogwarts.

"I can't believe you did it, Harry," he told him admiringly, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

"I couldn't have done it without your help, Neville. You were brilliant."

Neville showed each of his teeth in the proud smile this statement produced. It was clearly encouragement like this that had driven Neville to prove his worth in Gryffindor.

Gabrielle Delacour had only just finished doting on Harry (several kisses on the cheek later) when he spotted George wandering into the garden. He seemed to be slimming more and more as each day passed, his eyes losing their usual warmth and glee. He had taken to mumbling to himself, thinking out loud most likely, and now appeared to be engaging in a one-sided argument amongst the tulips. Harry's heart swelled for him; he could not imagine what it would be like to lose a brother or sister, much less a twin—someone you had grown used to sharing everything with, never becoming tired of the company. Fred and George very rarely fought, and when they did, were able to recover very quickly.

George was not acting like himself, this was certain. The family seemed to dismiss it to some degree, likely for the assumption that he would take a considerable amount of time longer to make headway in the area of acceptance. It seemed to be the general consensus to simply let him be and allow him this space, for it would be the only way to let him grieve properly.

"Harry, can I speak with you?"

He turned to view his latest admirer, only to see his favorite of them all. There she stood, looking beautiful as ever in a lilac-colored sundress, her ginger hair curled in ringlets around her well-defined cheekbones. He wanted to embrace her immediately.

"Yes…Yes, of course," he stammered, still recovering from the trance she so often put him in (more successfully than any Veela, for certain.)

"It's only…" she began hesitantly, but behind her Harry caught the glint of something in George's grasp reflecting the sunlight.

It couldn't be.

Marvolo Gaunt's face rippled through Harry's mind, the man who so desperately clung to the last family heirloom—the ring he donned on his finger.

Harry, himself, had carried it through the woods only days ago.

Only an hour or two before George had wandered that direction, himself. It was all beginning to click into place at once, causing a surge in Harry's adrenaline, his heart pounding in his ears.

"Harry," Ginny said strictly, agitated by his lack of attention. "Honestly, haven't you made this hard enough for me?"

"I'm sorry, Gin," he breathed distractedly, moving swiftly past her. He heard her call desperately after him as he broke into brisk walk, sweeping past dozens of well-wishers, following the jog that George had picked up. "George?" he called after him frantically.

They were approaching the outskirts of the woods. George had shown no sign of slowing. "GEORGE!" Harry called once more.

At last, at the river's edge, amongst the trees, George came to a steady halt. The sounds of the party were drowned out here by the orchestra of nature, birds chirping and the babbling brook before them. Only then did Harry at last notice the psychosis in George's eyes; a broken spirit was shining through, as if desperately asking to be released from its grief. The usually-vibrant freckles on his cheeks and nose even looked as though they had begun to sink into the pallid hue of his face.

This was not the same George that had jeered with his brother seven years ago about blowing up a toilet seat for Ginny while boarding the train for his third year. He was stripped: a sheer fragment of what he had once been. Instead of healing, the wound only seemed to be deepening and festering, and Harry had the proper idea of why.

"Where did you get it?" Harry demanded cautiously, pointing to the gem he knew to be wedged tightly in George's fist.

This inquiry seemed to ignite paranoia in George's demeanor.

"The…The forest…At Hogwarts," he stated carefully, and at once confirmed Harry's suspicions. He took a deep breath, crossing his fingers that he would not say something of consequence to make George take off once more.

"You saw him again…Didn't you?" he asked quietly. Even the birds in the trees seemed to hush at this delicate query, listening silently for the answer. But Harry already knew the answer.

Something flashed through George's eyes. Something fearful, dangerous, and cynical all at once. He seemed to study Harry for a well-drawn moment before nodding solemnly.

Harry paused. He didn't know what to say now. How could he express any words of comfort after what the twin had been through? Nothing seemed to carry sufficient gravity to merit a miracle such as this.

"He wasn't the Fred you knew…Was he?" he continued sadly, feeling his muscles tighten substantially in restraint from tears. He had suddenly come to an understanding of why George had obsessively isolated himself in his bedroom and of why he seemed to be sinking deeper rather than surfacing to breathe.

For a moment it looked as though he may lash out. The dangerous flicker in his eyes returned for a second before he slowly shook his head 'no.' He appeared puzzled and shocked.

"How—How do you?—"

"I saw them," Harry confessed, hoping this explanation was adequate, for he did not wish to go into much more detail. It caused him a great deal of pain to ponder it, himself. "Only for a moment…Before—before—" He inhaled sharply. "Well, I suppose that part isn't important…"

"Why can't I get him to come back again?" George asked soberly, turning the stone over feverishly in his hand, his entire body trembling. "He—He only came out that once…"

"Because it wasn't real, and you know it," Harry explained rationally, approaching him. "Because deep down you know how ridiculous it is, and how dangerous it could be…And that part of you doesn't _want_ him to come out again…"

George swallowed hard and looked onto the horizon. A sobriety was beginning to sharpen in his gaze as his chest heaved, tears shining in his eyes.

"What do I do?" he asked determinedly, clearly avoiding visual contact. Harry took the moment to watch this transition in body language, knowing this image would be burned in his memory forever. He inhaled sharply.

"We need to put it somewhere that no one will ever find it," he explained, holding his hand out to take the stone.

George hesitated, as Harry knew he would. He seemed to be weighing the two very different outcomes in his mind, the cogs turning at a rapid pace. With each moment that he rationalized internally, bits of the ancient passion were returning to his eyes. "But what if?..." He didn't finish. He didn't need to. Harry knew precisely what his deepest fear was.

"It will be well-hidden. You won't even know where to come back to find it." George still appeared quite skeptical, his breathing so ragged that there was a distinct wheezing noise erupting with each exhale. "Please, George…It does no justice to his memory, and you know this…"

It was a moment of true character for George as he faced this internal struggle. At last, tears dribbling silently down his cheeks in rivulets, he thrust the stone towards Harry.

"I trust you, Harry. I always have." Harry noted that his eyes harbored more humanity and maturity than Harry had seen in days.

"I know," he returned quietly, closing his fist around the stone and ignoring the pulsating heat it was emitting.

There was a moment of silence during which an unspoken bond was formed. It was an undeclared vow that neither would ever speak of the matter again, knowing it was for the greater good. Still, George took a good deal of time tearing himself away. Harry watched him slowly retreat in the direction of the party, glancing back every so often. Harry kept this careful eye keen, determined to lose sight of him before taking any action.

He pondered for a good quarter of an hour over what to do to most effectively dispose of the Hallow. In the end he conceded to cast his strongest invisibility charm upon it and thrust it far down the river, only hoping it would be carried out to sea, dropping heavily to the ocean floor.

His emotions were exhausted. The sun was setting once more, casting a chill onto the property. The festival noise did not dull, however—Harry was grateful to know that the party would continue even in his absence, for he was now in no mood to return.

He sat by the water's edge for a decent duration, enjoying this time of solitude that had seemed to be constantly eluding him. He was in dire need of this sort of recuperation. It was still difficult to swallow the notion that he would no longer be living in fear for himself or those he loved; it was requiring immense effort to entertain the idea.

It seemed as though this daze had only begun before it was interrupted by a voice on the wind. Hermione. He looked around quickly, trying to pinpoint the source of the vocalization.

A deeper one was carried to his ears next. Ron. They were together.

He got to his feet and followed the muffled dialogue. As the mumbles turned to audible words, Harry at last discovered them beneath the willow from the previous day. They were both lounged against the trunk, wrapped in one another's arms, enjoying their own version of solitude. Despite his superego's nagging to leave them to their privacy, Harry crouched behind a nearby tree, listening silently.

"It was so brave of you, Ron, the way you offered yourself to Bellatrix in my stead," she was saying in quiet admiration.

"What else could I do? I couldn't bear to see her hurt you."

"It's just…I…" Hermione's words got caught in her throat as she became tearful. "I never imagined you cared so much…"

"Oh, 'Mione, don't be daft," Ron teased, though Harry took note of the sincerity in his voice. "You should know I do."

"But—But the way you left us that night…The argument you got into with Harry…Shouldn't you have turned back if you cared so much? Ron, I followed you…I followed you until I couldn't see you anymore, until you Disapparated…" A fierce growl was developing in her words. "_You kept going._ You _left_ me there…I never—I never cried so much in my _life_ Ron…"

"Harry told me," he admitted sheepishly. There was a pause before he continued. "I'm not proud of what I did, Hermione…I told you, that locket…It—Did things to me. Worse than it did for either of you. It sounds bloody insane, but it _convinced_ me that I wasn't wanted."

"Oh, don't be stupid, Ronald, it was only a piece of jewelry. It couldn't possibly—"

"A piece of jewelry that was a home for a bit of You-Know-Who's _soul_, Hermione. Not exactly run-of-the-mill, you know," he shot back with a hint of bitterness in the retort.

Again, a bout of silence fell between them.

"It played on my darkest fears, Hermione," Ron continued, calming once more. "It…It reminded me of how insignificant I was when standing next to Harry. How you would have much rather fancied him than the clumsy sidekick…"

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard," Hermione returned. Harry saw now that she was raising her head from his shoulder to look at him. "Harry's like…Like…A brother!"

"I know, I know, he told me all of this already," Ron agreed, crossing his arms as if it would keep a restraint on this newly-shared insecurity. "I don't think it anymore…I mean…Obviously…" There was a hint of a smirk on his lips, and Harry knew at once that his 'obviously' referred to the near-death snogging session.

She did blush a bit, too, clearly interpreting this comment the same way.

"If this is all true, Ron…If this is how you feel—How we _both_ feel…" She hesitated, her breathing hitched, apparently extracting a decent amount of bravery to be having this discussion. "Well, then, I need to hear you say it. I refuse to partake in a relationship that holds no foundation."

"No foundation?" Ron sputtered indignantly, sitting up quite straight. "I'll have you know, Hermione, that this relationship was having its foundation laid that night we saved you from the troll in the bathroom. Not to mention the fact that I marched right into a colony of freakishly large spiders for you! Or my very obvious reaction to _damn_ Viktor Krum with his _damn_ Bulgarian accent taking you to that _damn_ ball! You should bloody know it!"

"And Lavender?" Hermione practically screeched, pushing whisps of hair from her face. "What about her? You couldn't seem to get your fill of _her_ last year, could you?"

"SHE WAS BLOODY EASY!" Ron hollered. This was clearly the wrong thing to say, as Hermione stood up quite quickly, already beginning to walk away in a huff.

"Ron, you prat…" Harry breathed to himself, careful to reposition his stance to remain out of sight. Truth be told, he had been waiting for them to have out this conversation for years. Merlin knew how he felt about it, for he wasn't sure whether to feel happy or lonely, but in any case, he only wanted the best for each—And the best for them both was each other. He was damn sick of waiting for them to admit it.

"I—I didn't mean _easy_—I only meant—" Ron stammered hopelessly. He released an almighty sigh, causing Hermione to stop but not turn around. This blunder required careful repair, and she would certainly make Ron aware of it. It appeared to be working, for he stood up and took a couple short steps toward her. "She was a simple catch, yeah…" Hermione stiffened considerably. "That's all that made it worth my while…She fancied me an unhealthy amount, and I…I reckoned…I reckoned if you saw that someone else fancied me, that you'd come to your senses and bloody realize that you wanted me, too."

"I had known that for some time before Lavender, Ronald," Hermione argued, still standing with her feet planted firmly.

"Then why did you go with Krum to the ball?"

Something flashed across Hermione's face—A bout of sympathy, perhaps—She alternated her weight from one foot to the other.

"Was it to make me jealous, 'Mione? To make me realize what I was missing?"

Again, she failed to respond.

"Lavender was the same for me. See, it's like chess, Hermione…" At this, Ron seemed to be speaking from a fiery passion within himself, giving all remaining energy to this single explanation. "You will sacrifice the feelings of your pawns in order to protect the feelings of the queen…But the queen is the piece in the game that you really cherish, yeah? So it was like…Lavender was my pawn, and you were my queen." He was quiet for another moment. "Or…Blimey, that doesn't make any sense…"

Hermione had turned back to him, some of her impenetrable wall drawn down. "No…It doesn't, really…"

Ron groaned in agitation, pulling at the roots of his hair, as if searching desperately within himself for a better explanation. His voice was crescendoing with increasing frustration. "I don't know how to tell you, Hermione, because I'm not sure I even know what the hell I'm saying. I try to speak from my heart and say something of significance, and it comes out sounding like rubbish. I'm no good with words, so I can't write you a poem or take you for a walk under the stars telling you everything you want to hear, because I'm _bloody rotten_ at it, all right? All I know is—Well—Is that there's you, and there's me, and together is the only way that either of us can make any sense. I don't make sense without you, Hermione. Lavender? Bollocks. She can eat dung for all I care, because she isn't you, and she never came close."

Harry distinctly saw tears cascading down Hermione's cheeks, her guard completely drawn.

Ron seemed to notice that he was getting somewhere, because his conviction was quieting. "I guess what it all comes down to is…I suppose…I love you, 'Mione, and for me that's all that matters anymore."

A sob escaped Hermione's throat as she lunged herself back at him, knocking him into the grass. She began kissing him with a fiery passion that Harry was surprised to see Hermione possess. He turned away to allow their privacy.

"I love you, too, you stupid git…That's all I needed to hear you say…"

Harry took this as his cue to exit, for it was clear now that no further words would be exchanged for some time. As he walked, he conversed with his thoughts. There was a voice inside him that expressed wanting to experience the same sort of exchange with Ginny.

But did he love her? It was likely. Highly likely, in fact. But for all the distractions he had faced in their relationship, he couldn't be sure. All he knew right now is that—Well, as Ron had put it with surprising accuracy, 'they only made sense together.' He felt the same of Ginny. Perhaps she would find it in her heart to forgive him of his negligence over the past year—Maybe she would grow to understand precisely why it had been done—Then they could be happy together for good…

"Harry Potter."

She had appeared out of nowhere. Not that he was disappointed…She came strutting towards him with such a fury that he wasn't sure whether or not to flee. Her curls had gathered frizz and her makeup had smeared in slight. Her eyes were the spitting image of her mother's whenever she'd scold Fred and George for something destructive.

"I'm just about done having you walk away from me when I've got something important to say," she declared ferociously, stopping at a dead halt in front of him, her hands on her hips.

He was smiling. He knew he was. It was past the point of being helped. There she was, trying to spill her heart out to him, trying to make a point of how much he had been hurting her, and he was trying with all his might to keep from laughing.

"What?" she spat. "What the hell could possibly be so funny that you can't take this conversation seriously?"

Right then, he knew. It hit him like a ton of bricks as he stared into her chocolate brown eyes that shined with tears of frustration.

Everything seemed to play as a montage in his head. How he had been so concerned for her when she was taken to the Chamber in her first year…How he would have saved her, hero or not. How he wouldn't have been able to bear a life without her.

How she had been so keen to fire back at him in her fourth year, realizing that a schoolgirl crush was not a significant excuse for allowing his stupidity to dictate their conversations. How they had shared chocolate frogs together in the library before Madame Pince had put it to an end.

The days they spent alone together by the lake during their free time at Hogwarts only last year, and how he could never wish for a better pastime.

"What?" she demanded again, her confidence faltering from his lack of response.

His grin widened if at all possible.

Yeah. He knew it, now.

"I love you, Ginny."

And with that, before she even had the opportunity to respond, he had wrapped her in the most passionate embrace they had ever shared.

Oh yes. He had certainly had enough trouble for a lifetime.

But he would never get enough of this.

**THE END**


End file.
